


Healing

by goodbyebluesky



Series: The days that have been [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys should heal her husband more often, F/M, Healing scenario, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyebluesky/pseuds/goodbyebluesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/./“Will you get a healer, Khaleesi?” Doreah asks. Daenerys stops moving and straightens up. Her eyes are full of determination when she turns. “No.” She says, “I will care for him myself.”\.\ </p><p>In which Drogo hurts himself; and Daenerys finds a way to heal him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

Daenerys Targaryen is half-asleep by the time her _Khal_ comes back from his hunt. It is around midday and the sun-ship stands in his peak position in the sky; staring down on the vast _Khalasar_ camp below. The flaps of her tent were open and shifting gently in the cool breeze. Her eyes are closed and everything is peaceful. The child in her belly; the stallion that will mount the world, is taking a lot of her energy out of her even though her belly has not even swollen much.

Daenerys is lying down on her bed of furs when she hears the raucous calls of the Khal and his men as they enter the camp. She can hear them over the sound of the beating hooves of their horses as they ride through the narrow lanes.

She cracks one eyelid open and watches as they sail past her tent; galloping onwards and dragging their kills behind them in the dirt. Sleepily, she closes it again and drifts off. She feels a faint inkling to go and see her _Khal_ , but her tired body is winning over her heart and she surrenders herself to sleep.

She is woken ten minutes later by Doreah, who burst into her tent; brushing the flaps aside in haste and stumbling to the ground in front of the bed. “ _Khaleesi._ ” Doreah breathes, panting and out of breath. Daenerys opens her eyes immediately; concerned by the tone Doreah is enforcing.

“ _What_?” She inquires drowsily; her voice cracked and heavy with sleep. “ _Your Khal is wounded, Khaleesi._ ” Doreah said, worry creasing her brow.

This rouses Daenerys well enough. She opens her eyes fully and allows Doreah to help her into a sitting position so as to prevent head-rush. “What happened?” She asks, switching over to the Common Tongue without realising. “He was injured whilst hunting, _Khaleesi_. Come quick.” Doreah replies, helping Daenerys to her feet. Daenerys walks quickly out of the tent, spurred on by the thought of seeing her _Khal_ again.

Her fine hair blows away from her face by the breeze, and she replies almost instinctively to the murmurs of ‘ _Khaleesi_ ’ in the paths between the huts as her people move out of the way. She turns one corner; then another, and suddenly finds herself in a round clearing between four huts.

She sees him immediately. He is by far the largest figure there; back propped up against his kneeling horse and nursing a ferociously bleeding arm. The cause of the injury is a half-a-foot long slash in his skin. Daenerys feels her heart shoot into her throat.

Ser Jorah is there, kneeling beside him in the dust and holding the reins of Drogo’s horse. _Khal_ Drogo’s deep-black kohl rimmed eyes are half-shut, his lips forming words that Daenerys can’t read. With a cry, she pitches forward and runs towards him, ignoring Doreah’s cries that she take it slow. This is her husband, _gods-be-damned,_ and she doesn’t care for herself in this moment.

His eyes flash open when she drops to the ground beside him, dragging her knees in the dirt, and with her light eyes open and wide in fear. Her lithe fingers dance over the skin on his chest, shoulders and finally his arms. _“My sun and stars.”_   She whispers, voice still croaky with sleep but full of worry and concern.

 _“_ _Moon of my life.”_ He replies, cupping his uninjured hand to her face. His fingers are sticky and wet with blood but his hand is warm and gives her comfort. He does not smile in front of his _Khalasar_ but Daenerys doesn’t care.

“Can you walk?” She asks. He nods once and his legs tense in preparation under him. Daenerys kneels and holds his injured arm in her smaller hands. She stands up, and with a might heave, and with strength she does not know she possesses, she pulls her horse-lord husband to his feet.

She puts his arm around her shoulders, and realises it’s not only his arm that hurts as he limps beside her. His larger frame threatens to buckle hers, but Daenerys is full of determination and strength and she keeps him upright.

In plain sight for all the _Khalasar_ to see, _Khal_ and _Khaleesi_ stumble through the camp between the erected tents as the _Khal’s_ Bloodriders and Ser Jorah and Drogo’s stallion follow behind them. As soon as Daenerys crosses the threshold of their tent, the procession vanishes. Doreah ambles at the entrance as Daenerys lays her husband down on their bed of furs. “Will you get a healer, _Khaleesi?”_ She asks. Daenerys stops moving and straightens up.

Her eyes are full of determination when she turns. “No.” She says, “I will care for him myself.” Her Dothraki has improved. “Leave us.” Daenerys commands, and Doreah bows her head once, before turning and leaving the tent.

Daenerys watches her leave, before crossing to the other side of the tent, where there stands a strongbox containing healing salves and ointments. It is true that Daenerys has no extensive knowledge of how to heal wounds, but what she does know is rudimentary to heal a slash in the skin.

She sits down next to her _Khal_ and strokes his face. His eyes have closed and his breathing deepened, but she knows him to be awake when his eyes open and he looks straight at her; dark stare penetrating her defences. “ _You do not need to do this._ ” Drogo tells her, voice rough.

Daenerys allows herself to smile. “ _But I want to_.” She tells him, caressing the scar above his eye; wondering what he did to get it. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. Daenerys feels a smile break out onto her face and she leans down; kissing his forehead.

She gets up and moves the furs around his legs away. She kneels beside his right leg and keeps his stare as she starts to run her fingers along his leg; searching for the source of his pain. Drogo’s gaze darkens and his eyes glaze over as she creeps higher and higher; getting closer to the juncture of his thighs. She reaches it and her eyes flit to her _Khal’s_ as he takes in a sharp breath.

She leaves his right leg and moves around the bed to his left, fingers inching along the fabric of his pants. There’s another intake of breath when she reaches his shin, but it’s in pain. Daenerys’ eyes flit upwards at her husband, whose brow is marred by a frown.

She knows that if they were anywhere else in the _Khalasar’s_ camp right now; that frown would not be there. A _Khal_ of his stature does not show weakness to the rest of his herd. Only she, his _Khaleesi_ and equal, has that privilege.

She stands up and moves over to his waist. Her hands easily find the waistband of his breeches and she helps him out of them. His loincloth only covers him now, but she is more interested in the foot-long slash down his left shin that’s oozing blood faster than she can count heads outside their tent.

She looks at him; a brief flash of panic flitting across her face before Drogo’s dark eyes drown it out. She grabs hold of one of the pots of healing salve and dabs some onto her fingers and starts to gently rub it into the wound, caressing his knee with her other hand. He accepts her treatment silently and without grimacing.

Salve applied, she reaches over to the strongbox and pulls out a bunch of comfrey leaves. She scrunches them in her small hands and lays them on the salve-dressed wound, searching her husband’s face for any signs of discomfort. She finds none, only relief that shines in his eyes and reaches out to her.

She smiles at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There is a dry thread-woven dressing inside the strongbox, and she takes it. She kneels on the bed in between his legs and lifts the left onto her shoulder. As though it comes naturally, she dresses the wound with the dressing and ties it off.

She lays his leg back on the bed and walks around the bed, sitting down beside him and taking his injured arm in her hands. She repeats the process with the slash on his arm and he allows it. She works in silence and he receives it silently. The only sounds Daenerys can hear are the snorts of horses outside the tent, the cries of children, and the snippets of conversation between members of the _Khalasar_ , slaves, men and woman alike.

Her breathing sounds loud to herself and she can hear the blood rushing in her ears. She finishes the dressing of the wound on her husband’s arm and cradles it in her arms for a moment before gently laying it by his side. His eyes follow her around the room as she cleans up her supplies. She can feel the weight of his stare on her back; the depth and intensity of his eyes as they watch her. She feels like prey; ready to be pounced on at any moment.

The feeling starts like a flame low in her belly, creating something hot and dangerous that rushes through her bloodstream and compels her to do things she normally wouldn’t. Once the strongbox is back in its position, she turns around and faces him. The tension between them crackles like lightning. Drogo’s expression doesn’t change, but she sees the dark haze in his eyes that tells her she’s doing something right.

She walks over to him, feet dragging over the thread-bare rug thrown on the ground. Drogo’s eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up in a smile when she straddles him, her hips rocking against his. His hands reach up, the large surface covering the skin on her waist and hips at the same. Daenerys smiles as he sits up, moving his hands from her hips to encircle her back and as he splays his fingers possessively across her shoulder blades.

She rocks her hips once; twice, and watches in fascination as Drogo closes his eyes; however briefly before snapping them over and rocking his hips in response to hers. The flame in her stomach has turned into a low heat; seeping into her veins and setting them alight with _something_. The hot and dangerous feeling is becoming more and more intense the more Drogo rocks his hips; drawing closer to the surface.

Daenerys smiles and leans forward, pressing her mouth to his in a near ferocious manner. She’s telling herself it’s the healing salves and comfrey and the incense burning faintly in the corner of the tent that’s making her do this, as the heat in her stomach increases and starts to become uncomfortable.

Drogo’s fingers are digging into her shoulder blades when her mouth drags away from his and starts to kiss along the ridge of his chin, teeth tugging at his beard in a playful manner. She meets his eyes and smiles at the weight of emotion barely concealed by the dark haze in his eyes. Emotion swirls in her chest and surges into a peak when he rocks against her, causing her jaws to move apart in a strangled gasp that escapes from her throat.

She tilts her head to the ceiling of the tent when he rocks his hips again, and Drogo seizes advantage of the manoeuvre, pressing his lips against her throat and sliding it over the skin. His teeth nip at the skin, leaving red marks in his wake.

Daenerys doesn’t know that Drogo’s hand has moved until she feels his warm and sticky fingers pressing against the back of her neck, and swirling through her hair. A desperate sound leaves her open mouth and her eyes look down as far as is possible, watching as Drogo devours her throat and suckles at the red marks his teeth made earlier.

Her eyes look back up to the ceiling as the onslaught on her throat continues. Her eyes are counting out the threads of straw holding up the roof of the hut in order to try and prolong the gradually building heat in her stomach; getting hotter and hotter and _hotter_.

She doesn’t know what her hands are doing, but she can feel Drogo’s pounding hoof-heartbeat through one palm and the pulse in his neck with the other. Her nails are digging into his skin; and when she lifts her palm away she can see the crescent-moons her fingers created.

She manages to grasp the back of his neck and she pulls him away from her throat for a split-second, watching as his eyes blurred and then re-focused. All of a sudden, the sound from the rest of the tents is drowned away by the frantic beating of her heart, the simmering, and burning heat in her stomach, the intensity of Drogo’s stare as his breath comes hard and fast out of his mouth and the feel of his erection digging into her thigh.

Daenerys’ chest heaves and she leans in, pressing her forehead to her husband’s. She feels his warm breath washing over her lips, and she breathes in without second thought the air he just exhaled. He smells of dirt and heat and haze and of his horse, strangely, but she isn’t surprised.

His hands are trailing down her back, one splayed under her neck and the other undoing the ties on her top. Daenerys whimpers in anticipation and shimmies closer, rocking her hips along his length and smiling in response to Drogo’s warm hisses against her collarbone.

Her belly is pressed against his, the skin rising and falling rapidly in time with her roaring pulse. His injured arm is pressed carefully against her back, the splayed fingers caressing the damp skin with a tenderness she would have never thought possible.

She feels the bindings holding her breasts fall away and Drogo’s right hand cupping one of them, thumb grazing lazily over the nipple and his mouth descending on it, covering the skin in soft kisses before the cavern of his mouth claims it. Another whimper escapes from her mouth as her hands find his hair and entangle themselves in the thick tresses; made rough by the bindings with which he plaits them.

Daenerys feels the heat _really_ building now, coming to an apex deep inside her. The feel of Drogo’s mouth on her breast and the way with which he is rocking his hips is slowly driving her over the edge.

She vaguely thinks that the tent-walls are only made of thin thread and canvas, that everyone can hear what is happening, and that she is pregnant already, and that her husband was injured not _two hours_ ago, but all of it melts away when he rocks his hips again and she careens over the edge, a strangled gasp leaving her mouth.

As her muscles tense she believes she can hear a similar sound come from her husband below her; whose mouth is now fitted around the other breast, fingers still caressing her back. Her eyes roll up into her head and she closes her eyes, breathing heavily. 

Daenerys feels herself being lifted up with the ease of moving a newborn child and being put down with the soft furs caressing her back. She opens her eyes and as they refocus, she sees her husband, now looming over her and propped up on his one uninjured arm.

A tender smile breaks out and splits Daenerys’ mouth in two. She sees it mirrored by her husband and her heart lurches with emotion. She leans up onto her elbows and pecks his lips, smiling and repeating the action when he doesn’t pull away.

She barely knows the word for _love_ in Dothraki, but she wants to say it anyways. “ _I love you._ ” She says, keeping her eyes riveted to Drogo’s and watching for his reaction.

His reaction comes in the form of a slow, tender kiss to her lips, and when he lifts away she swears she can see his lips curved in a smile. His eyes are full of the emotion she saw earlier, not quite primal desire, but something she can only amount to care and _love_ , as strange as it sounds.

His hand, still on her back, gingerly lifts her against him and cradles her torso to his. Daenerys feels her heart lurch again, and the heat in her stomach again starts to simmer when he rocks his hips against hers.

Then he lays her down and lifts away from her, leaving Daenerys confused and wanting on the furs. Drogo is smirking; the corners of his mouth lifting to such a degree that she can see the corners of his teeth glinting in the light.

He kneels by her waist and edges her skirt past her hips and further down her legs slowly, nails catching and gently scratching the skin. Daenerys writhes beneath his torturous fingers, feeling gooseflesh rise wherever he touches her. She lies uncovered beneath the skirt, and Drogo knows this.

Once the skirt has been lifted away and dropped in a pile of fabric, Drogo makes an extravagant show of kneeling by her legs and trailing his fingers over the sensitised skin, raising even more goosebumps as his finger creep closer and closer to the juncture of her thighs.

Daenerys groans, her hands digging into the furs and clenching it tightly.  The simmering heat in her stomach is creeping up to the apex again, making her desperate for the release of the tension around her thighs.

Her head tosses against the furs near her head, hair flying and fanning out under her head. Drogo sits on his haunches above her, watching in amusement as she tosses and turns beneath him. Her pupils have dilated, her eyes scanning the tent wildly. Daenerys manages to push herself up onto her elbows and stares at him, skin flushed and damp with sweat and desire and _need_.

She trembles in anticipation as her husband’s arms lift her torso into the air, pressing hers up against his chest. The abrasion against her skin causes her to writhe even more, almost wild in her movements. She is vibrating with nervous energy; her movements near spasmodic in her need to find release.

Drogo is as near to breaking as she is; his member close to breaking out of the confines of his loincloth. As Daenerys sits up on his hips, he reaches down and brushes the loincloth aside, raising her up by her armpits; thumbs barely grazing over her taut nipples before setting her down and feeling her sink onto his member.

Her eyes widen as the heat in her stomach explodes into a large wave of feeling that momentarily drowns everything out around her. Drogo growls ferally, the loudest sound in the tent all night. Daenerys cries next, a desperate sound that comes from deep in her throat. For a moment, all she can do is sit on Drogo’s hips with him inside of her; processing the large wave of feeling that assaults all her senses.

Then, Drogo starts to rock his hips inside of her, pumping at a slow pace that is both agonising and extraordinary at the same time. Drogo’s hands are entwined around her waist, limbs slick with sweat with hers around his neck, nails digging into his flesh.

Daenerys rocks in tune with him, picking up straight away on his slow and steady rhythm. She feels love encompass every single fibre of her being; setting her veins and bloodstreams alive with liquid fire. She gasps for breath and presses her forehead against his, increasing her rhythm in her need to find release.

Drogo grunts beneath her, increasing her pace in time with her. He pulls away fast and far enough to look her directly in the eyes; dark eyes fogged through with desire before he latches onto her lips with his and tugs at her bottom lip with his teeth. Daenerys feels her apex building, looming closer and closer. Drogo is close too, she feels, because his muscles are already tensing in preparation for the release.

All of a sudden, Daenerys is rocking faster than she has before, feeling an overwhelming need to finish what she’s started. Drogo’s grunting is coming faster and louder now; clashing against her eardrums. The apex is closer, closer, _closer,_ and all of a sudden, _it’s there._

With a loud cry; she and Drogo pitch over the edge simultaneously. It’s her name that he calls, accompanied by a growl. In a rush, Daenerys feels her muscles clench and Drogo’s member stiffens inside of her.

Then, as soon as the tension has mounted, it’s gone, and Daenerys feels her grip slip away. Drogo is the only thing holding her up now, his arms around her the only thing anchoring her to the world. She’s shuddering from her release still, trembling and shivering in his arms.

“ _I love you.”_ She hears him say the words and compels herself to stop and look at him. He’s smiling at her and Daenerys feels her heart lurch again. She feels his lips on her forehead; tender.

With a sigh of contentment she falls back against the furs and wraps herself in them, and twining her body around her husband’s when he drops down beside her. The juncture around her thighs is sticky with fluids and her body is damp with sweat.

Drogo’s hands have not been washed and he smells of dirt, but Daenerys is tired from their lovemaking and falling asleep beside her husband; dirty or clean, is the best feeling there is so she’ll surrender to it.

Her exhaustion from the day past catches up to her, and as the sun dips below the horizon; so does her consciousness. Drogo lies next to her; arms around her and his lips against her forehead. She hums in contentment against his chest; the skin tickling her nose. She feels his uninjured arm come around to stretch around her waist; fingers splaying apart and stroking her bare skin.

She raises her head and searches for his gaze. He’s already looking at her; deep contentment vividly displayed in his dark eyes. His pounding hoof-heartbeat has slowed down, a steady thrum against her ear that lulls her to sleep. He smiles at her, his eyes creasing in tenderness and love, and he bends down and kisses her; keeping their lips connected until he draws back for air.

His body is warm and she is cocooned in him, surrounded by his musky scent and enclosed in his arms. She is warm here, and safe here, and more content that Viserys’ promises have ever made her. If anything, the arranged marriage between her and Drogo has made her happier than anything ever has.

Between slow and lazy blinks, Daenerys catches sight of the bandages on Drogo’s arm and his leg. She smiles, and thinks she should heal him more often.

She should _definitely_ heal him more often. 


End file.
